A/N: WHEW! The holidays were crazy! But here we are. I added a tidbit to the end of chapter 11, so please make sure you re-read if you are following as I post new chapters. And I should warn you: If you are a fan of Michael Gregson - I am not. :) I've also re-edited to clean up typos, which I apologize for.

Edith accepted a request by Michael Gregson, the editor of The Sketch, to meet with him at his office in London to "discuss the possibility of future writing collaborations." She was thrilled, but honestly didn't know what to expect. She had no experience with business negotiations, and felt that her father wouldn't be particularly helpful nor approving.

What she didn't expect was Gregson's almost glowing admiration for her and her work. While she was certain Anthony would approve of her writing, she had not had the time with him to actually hear much in the way of compliments from him. And she had never received any from her family.

So she was flattered, and a bit shaken. Was smiling at Michael (when did he become Michael?) a betrayal of the sacrifices Anthony had made for her, and was probably making for her now? But there was hardly anything she could do about it, she couldn't be rude. And she really did enjoy her monthly meetings with Michael in London. The freedom to go wherever she wanted. It reminded her of during the war, at Locksleigh.

He gave her an office to work in while she was in London, and treated her as if she was a valued member of the publishing team, instead of just a name he was using to sell more papers. He brought her coffee, and even rolls in the morning.

And they talked. About everything and anything. Edith was mentally stimulated in a way she had never been before. It was exhilarating.

Michael was clearly interested in her, but seemed to be treading carefully. She knew he was worried about her being the daughter of an Earl, and guessed that he was nervous to ask her out. She smiled. Edith felt like a normal, regular person while she was there, not the daughter of a disinterested Earl and someone who people gossiped about. It was nice to have someone fuss over her, in a good way.

EAEAEAEAEAEAEAEAEAEA

Four months since she had started at the Sketch. Seven months since Sybil had died. Eight months since Anthony had left her in the church. So much change, and yet not a word from Anthony since that letter.

Edith had to admit to herself, though, as she packed up her things in her office at the end of a productive day, that she was nervous about it all collapsing. She had begun to make a name for herself, just as her grandmother and Mycroft had suggested. What would a future with Anthony look like?

Could there be a future with Michael instead?

With the swirling of her thoughts, she nearly missed the car with its door open as she left the building. She stopped, and stared at the driver, who nodded. Edith looked around nervously, and stepped inside the car.

The car took her to a side street that had a small deli. The driver said "In there," quietly, and Edith obliged. She wasn't sure why she was being so compliant, but something about the situation seemed exactly –

Yes. There was Mycoft Holmes, sitting at a table, with a cup of tea, reading the paper. He acknowledged her slightly as she sat.

"One of the most important rules of this business is to never be remembered," Mycroft nearly murmured across to her. "You must be seen talking, but no one remembers what you said. You must look like you belong, but no one can remember what you wore or what you look like. Safe, but uninteresting. This allows you to do things in public that would otherwise look suspicious if you conducted them in private."

"I see," Edith answered vaguely, thinking through this tutorial, as a waitress came to the table. "Would you like anything, miss?"

"Yes, tea and a scone, thank you," Edith said smoothly. She had not much experience with the public, but she was a fast learner. The fact brought a tiny smile to the corners of Mycroft's eyes.

"Michael Gregson," Mycroft began as the waitress walked away, folding his paper. "What can you tell me about him?"

Edith thought for a moment. "Not much, really. He's been the editor of The Sketch for three years, I mean, he founded it. He's done the rounds of working for The Mail, other papers. I think he was born in London, but I'm not sure…."

"No, no one is," Mycroft said, pausing as the waitress brought a fresh pot and several more scones for the table.

"What do you mean?" she asked as casually as she could, while pouring them both a new cup.

"There is no record of a Michael Gregson anywhere in London, or any other major English city, before the war. He appears in London in 1917. We've had no other leads."

Edith sat back, and thought through everything Michael had ever hold her. And realized that he was being deliberately opaque. When asked about his family, she had gotten a tight, pained smile and something about the war killing most of them. When she had asked about what he had published before, he had mentioned The Mail, but she had no way to verify that.

But he had asked many questions about her, and her past. She had been pleased to have someone take an interest in her, but had managed to avoid talking about Anthony. She just assumed that he knew already, as the "jilting" had made the society columns for a few days. She had thought he was just being kind, but now she saw a less kind aura to his questions, as if he had been teasing her, testing what she was willing to tell him.

"Has he asked you to dinner yet?" Mycroft continued.

"Yet?" Edith frowned.

"Yes, 'yet.' I'm afraid he has a bit of a reputation."

Edith looked at him, wide-eyed. She had heard nothing. She had so desperately wanted to assume that Michael was only interested in her at first truly because of her writing, and then secondly as a desirable woman. How stupid and silly she must seem to him! She couldn't keep the tears that sprung to her eyes.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have been so harsh," Mycroft put his wrinkled hand over hers comfortingly. "You have been through much, but I am beginning to believe you are in the middle of something much larger." Mycroft removed his hand. "And something much worse."

Edith took a breath. "What must I do?"

Mycroft slide a small envelope to her. "I have written down some suggestions. We need to able to observe him with you. That will tell Anthony much."

Edith gasp at Anthony's name. "Is he well? How will he see us?"

"Our Anthony is a master of disguise. He has travelled the world under different aliases. Fear not," Mycroft said, "he has been keeping tabs on you from afar, for your safety and his."

The sentence told her more about Anthony than she had learned in the years she had spent at Locksleigh. "Do as the instructions say. We'll know more then."

Mycroft called for the waitress, and paid. He helped her into her coat, and they left together.

The waitress smiled at the tip the old man had left. Such a nice grandfather, to take his granddaughter out for tea, she thought. She cleaned the table and promptly forgot them as two new tables came bustling in.